Bramblepoint bide my time

vague about outcomes of this!

She supposes it only makes sense to return to the place she had gone from whence everything had begun thereafter. And though she had rummaged through the underbrush for the ailments that had been afflicted upon her person, she still aches, in flesh and marrow and soul. But this insufferable adamancy to continue and to wander, to leave and to list is still there; and it is all Andraste can do to bid the lune-lopers farwell  (for now?)  before returning to the briars in somnolence and silence.

She moves through the hour of gloaming, 'ere;
and again the silver sibyl unwounds her wrists from the sedge-knots that reach for her, high-stepping and so faraway from herself that she may very well be making this tread aslumber. She knows this place, above and below; below, the stands of elm and oak and what-have-you-wood, coming together to build great, green-grey fortresses of needles and thick, gnarly arms. Above are the lit heavens she's once felt, once followed, and now, now ‒‒
this rapt quietude, and the deafened hum of those heavens filling her ears, draws her close to the bright wanderer without even noticing until, of course, it is impossible not to.

The willowy and winter-thinned stricken shivers with a start;
rubied head pulled back, argent eyes peeking from the wisps betwixt shorn brow. Where she is waxen as forgotten candle, this female is flame made flesh. She takes a moment to breathe, to observe the determination upon her guise; what to say, if anything?

She remains quiet, cut lip a bit atremble, uncertain.